


Just a Statistic

by HueyNomure



Series: Through Shining Eyes [3]
Category: Magic: The Gathering
Genre: A whole lot of killing, Elphimas tries to be helpful, Fantasy genocide, Gen, Kalit isn't fond of religion, Magic: Expanded Multiverse, Warning: fantasy mental breakdown POV, a particularly bloody way to create a powerstone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-26 01:22:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16209722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HueyNomure/pseuds/HueyNomure
Summary: Kalit calls Elphimas' favor in, discovering a plan that could cause death beyond scale. The events will force them both to reflect on their role in the Multiverse and for each other.





	Just a Statistic

**Author's Note:**

> -The title is a reference to the (in)famous quote "One death is a tragedy; one million is a statistic."
> 
> -If you want to skip the worst of the POV's breakdown, when you read "too good to be spoiled" skip to "The world shivered". The few remaining paragraphs of the piece have the POV under appreciable mental strain but that's "all".
> 
> -Raiker Venn is a popular character written by another author in the project. Raiker is a classy poet who thinks the best art forms are A) tragedies and B) based on truth, so goes around engineering countless disasters to write poems about them. Yeah, he's a Villain with a capital V.
> 
> -(Three names in the fic are shameless anagrams)

Elphimas closed the _Heirless King_ , and wondered why the Storyteller had never completed an analysis of Raiker Venn’s substantial production; it seemed relevant in many cultures, after all. The vedalken decided to compile a formal commentary and leave it on the desk; the owner of the Azure Vault could do whatever they wanted with it as soon as they returned.

Elphimas was afraid most of the poems’ beauty was lost to them, as it happened with many forms of art. Elphimas appreciated the unique imagery, the intriguing themes and narratives, but clearly did not feel the same emotions his very large number of readers felt. Was the vedalken incapable of such strong feelings?

Elphimas laid the book gently on the desk and strolled toward the Haven’s library to clear their mind. The vedalken found walking among the piles of books – now sorted in structures less straining for the covers, at least – soothing; they passed the unanimated constructs that had kept the vast library tidy, with empty torsos designed to hold books while running all kind of errands. Elphimas coasted the archive of magic items – the enchantment of many artifacts had dissolved to keep the demiplane from collapsing – and returned to their starting point.

Fortunately, an interesting artifact had been spared by the ruthless hunger of the Eternities, and Elphimas wanted to test it as soon as possible. The vedalken took the silvery pen from the desk, and started forming the commentary in their mind. While not quite moved by Raiker’s poems, Elphimas was familiar with the Storyteller’s standards about critiques; the vedalken quickly reexamined the formal and narrative elements of the collection, comparing them to Venn’s earlier collections and the major works in various literate planes.

When Elphimas had polished the wording of the whole commentary, they started dividing the words in imaginary pages according to the usual sizing and spacing of the Storyteller’s work. Finally, they focused on the mental image of the written pages and pressed the pen’s point to their palm; a small puncture, and the vedalken felt a drop of blood being sucked by the pen. Elphimas put the pen on the small stack of paper they had prepared and waited.

For a couple of seconds, nothing happened. Then the pen started floating, its point hovering over a corner of the first page. After another second the point touched the paper and started tracing tidy small letters in cerulean ink with remarkable speed; the exact same calligraphy present in most books in the Haven. Elphimas turned to the other five desks; unfortunately, the other pens had exhausted their magic.

Elphimas observed the pen reach the end of the first page; after a moment’s hesitation, the sheet lifted and landed neatly next to the rest, and the pen started the next page with the same speed. The vedalken smiled fondly; for some reason, they found the sight endearing.

Elphimas would have probably watched the pen writing down the whole commentary – thus defeating half of the artifact’s purpose – if the ring on their hand had not started glowing.

* * *

Kalit glared at the shining ring: five minutes, and still no sign of Elphimas. The man kicked his prisoner to vent frustration; the cultist whimpered pathetically.

“I apologize for the delay.” Right on cue; Kalit pressured the prisoner’s throat with measured force to prevent him from screaming.

“No need for illusions,” Kalit whispered angrily to the young human who had just appeared.

“If I remember well my kind is not welcome around here,” Elphimas explained. “Do you need my help?”

“No _need_. Might be useful, though.”

“How can I be useful to you, then?”

“This cult has control around here. Maybe too much. Guards everywhere, curfew, mandatory cult meetings.” The cultist opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again when Kalit tapped him on the neck. “Sneaked here to know more, found blood sacrifice. Killed ritualists, victim died before fight ended. Cultist here entered room, I took him prisoner and questioned but can’t make sense of answers.”

Elphimas nodded. “Can I talk to him alone? I think your presence would make the conversation rather tense. Do not worry, the events of him getting out of those chains and me getting harmed are both very unlikely,” they added as Kalit eyed the prisoner critically. “You can stay right behind the door, I will call for you if anything wrong happens.”

* * *

Elphimas tilted their head and took stock of the room’s contents for the second time.

Behind them there were six corpses. One with a ritual knife lodged in its heart, muffled, laid neatly on a thick and worn table – the only piece of furniture in the room - in the center of the room; the other five were scattered around with messier wounds. An advanced ritual circle had been carved on the stone floor. In front of him was the “cultist”, kneeling, wrists and ankles tied with chains; the man was wearing a rough tunic designed for manual labor and from his neck hung a small icon, an iron lance over a golden stylized sun. He was staring at Elphimas with wide eyes; the vedalken sat on the floor before him, hoping to make him more at ease.

“My name is Elphimas, and I consider myself a travelling scholar. You are…?”

“Maarak, priest of the Sacred Spear.” The man was staring at Elphimas like he was expecting to be hurt.

“I am sorry for your current situation, Maarak. I wish you no harm, but my… fellow traveler, so to speak, can be rather physical in his approach. What can you tell me of-” “Are you a demon?” Maarak interrupted him.

“A demon? What gave you such an idea?”

“You said ‘your kind’ isn’t welcome in… churches.”

“I admit I was being obscure, but I meant “in this part of Fisecaric”, not “in churches”,” Elphimas clarified. “Listen, the man waiting outside that door was not happy of leaving you alone with me; his irritation is only likely to grow with the length of our conversation, so I think it is better for everyone to keep it at short as possible, do you agree?” Elphimas patiently waited for a response; Maarak nodded warily.

When the vedalken had a comprehensive idea of the situation, they called Kalit back in the room; the man entered and glowered at Maarak, then leveled an inquisitive stare at Elphimas.

“Maarak here was not directly involved in the sacrifice,” Elphimas explained, “three weeks ago a man came to him with the order of emptying a room for “special purposes” signed by Xant himself – the head of their religion, the Church of the Sacred Spear – that would be kept closed to anyone without a signed permission; few days later the man returned to carve the symbol you see on the floor, and finally a few hours ago the man arrived with four helpers carrying a large crate-”

“The victim.”

“That would be my guess too; anyway, they asked for the table Maarak used for his woodworking, dragged it into this room and… you know better than me what happened next,” Elphimas concluded.

“What about Xant?”

“High Cleric of the Sacred Spear, stalwart defender of the “old values” - of a religion founded less than three centuries ago, I would like to add – whose ambitions of spreading said values was greatly hindered by the “faithless”: vedalken, elves, ogres and goblins, all with cultures that date all the way back to the First Age.”

“Arrogant bastard,” Kalit hissed; Maarak’s protest was silenced by a glare.

“Others would call him “shrewd and ambitious”, but I guess it is a matter of nuance. Xant is responsible for the curfew and a more rigid interpretation of the doctrine, though the religion’s tenets were rather strict to begin with, like the moral duty of attending religious functions you mentioned “lest the soul rots and festers”.”

“The sacrifice?”

“Maarak knows nothing about it, but from the carving I can get an accurate estimate of the ritual’s nature.”

“So he told everything you need.” Kalit waited for Elphimas to nod, then casually beheaded Maarak with his sword; Kalit’s mana flared slightly.

“That was uncalled for,” objected Elphimas.

“Could warn Xant. Taking useless risks is calling for disaster.” Kalit shrugged. “So, the ritual?”

Elphimas cleared their throat and started: “This circle is a segment of a macroritual clearly based on Zhiran’s hypercausal theory, with a elegant choice of metamagic structures that results in a remarkable CSF – Crono-Spatial Flexibility, if you did not know – while retaining optimal functional modularity; _these_ elements are not microfunctional, but act as Jereniev-type connectors with the other four segments-” They pointed, and four lines glowed in blue light, “while _these two_ point outward, probably toward appendices or, in the worst case scenario, extenders.” Other lines started glowing. There also were nonfunctional flourishes that stood out in the otherwise highly efficient design… some sort of signature hidden in the lines… Narug, Gunar, something like that. “Are you following so far?”

“No. What’s it gonna _do_ , Elphimas?” Kalit snarled.

Elphimas regarded the symbol for another moment, then their smile faded. “Create a very worrying powerstone.”

“Powerstone?”

“An artifact capable of storing incredible amounts of energy. This particular stone would not be exactly a replica of the Thran technology, though, and that is the worrying part. Instead of space, the ritual would initially feed the powerstone with all the mana of the affected area, then will start harvesting _souls_. Kalit, this ritual could potentially wipe away all sentient life in Fisecaric.” Elphimas could not say why, but more than afraid, or horrified, they were excited. Was it wrong to feel like that?

“Danger for me?” Kalit sounded extremely tense.

Elphimas pondered the question. “The ritual uses the link with the plane as a tether, so I am sure it would not affect planeswalkers that have not recently spent, say, ten years on this plane.” The answer seemed to satisfy Kalit. “But by then countless innocent lives would be lost.”

“Innocent.” Kalit scoffed at the word. “Willingly put their neck in the noose accepting Xant.”

“And furthermore, such a powerstone would turn the weakest mage into a mighty archmage,” Elphimas added. Did he just not care?

“Death makes me stronger. Would be annoying, though.” Kalit shrugged. “How much before the ritual, and where?”

“No more than twelve hours; the head ritualist has to make sure the other microrituals have been completed – and we cannot know how much time this will need without losing precious time ourselves – then I imagine the main ritual will require one or two hours. As for the location, the Sacred Spear has renamed the old Prismatic Academia as the Cathedral of the Burning Spear.”

“Huge castle in the center of the city?”

“Power-mad mages are rarely as subtle as they think they are,” Elphimas commented.

“I’ll have to run.”

“I concur. I will wait for you before the main gates.” Odds were Elphimas could outpace Kalit even with the detour they had in mind.

Elphimas phased away from the plane; they cloaked their presence with illusions and phased back in in a corner of Risara’s main square. Risara had been the third most populous vedalken city – and in rapid expansion - a century ago, but most importantly it was accurately aligned with one of the microritual’s secondary connectors. After making sure no one was looking in their direction, Elphimas wore a vedalken illusion - one with ordinary eyes and two arms – and started wandering the square.

There was some traffic; Elphimas could see both clothes and buildings with purple decorations, a very expensive pigment; most of the voices they overheard were relaxed; a few couples huddled together on the verdant grass at the center of the square, oblivious of their surroundings... The square spoke of a lazy, ordinary afternoon in a wealthy neighborhood; nevertheless, Elphimas sensed something. Some sort of shadow, of lingering power that permeated the air, almost impossible to find for someone who wasn’t looking for it. Elphimas kept walking, hoping to notice some variation in the elusive sensation at least, but no such luck.

“You seem down on your luck, lad! Fancy a charm?” A smiling vedalken girl, sitting cross-legged against a tree, had addressed Elphimas from a dozen paces away. She appeared poor in covering attire, but very rich in ill-fitting metallic accessories; the numerous bracelets on her right arm jingled as she gestured Elphimas to come closer.

Elphimas pondered for a moment. Her wording seemed a little too precise to be fortuitous, but maybe that was her opening line; after all, she had a cloth covered in all kinds of cheap jewelry right before her knees. Maybe it was Narrative – or, as other called it, Fate - showing them the way. “Guaranteed lucky charms?” They asked, approaching the girl. She didn’t have any magical aura on her, and the same could be said for her wares.

“Sure they are!” The girl clapped her hands – the bracelets on both arms jingling in unison – and her amiable smile grew into a wide grin. “Got the solution to every problem right here! Troubled heart? Pink quartz is the answer! Your dream seems too far away? Amazonite’s your friend! Looking for profit? Pick up this citrine ring and look no further! Problems in-”

“My problem is much more definite,” Elphimas said, reluctantly interrupting the girl, “I need to know whether there was any unusual event around here in the last month, especially if somehow related to humans. Can you help me?”

“Want a chance to get answers for free? Aventurine’s the gambling stone, lad!” The girl said without skipping a beat. “Do you lack in manly vigor?” She asked raising her tone. A few heads turned, showing emotions that mostly ranged between curiosity and amusement. “Bloodstone’ll do wond- what’s that?”

Elphimas looked at the item they had just summoned from the Haven – at least, from the small part they had claimed as their temporary refuge – and cleared their voice. “Bikur’s Die. An intellectual pastime for young and old, and I was told there is a gold nugget at its center if you manage to solve it.”

The girl took the cube, tested its joints turning its faces one side and the other, then shook it near her ear; the jingling of her bracelets drowned any noise the nugget could have made, but the girl seemed satisfied. “Two weeks ago, a bunch of human actors did something about martyrs or torture or something right in this square. Made a lot of noise and got a lot of oglers, but few coins. Don’t know more, lad. Pick your charm if you want it, any one you see here.”

“I will take the opal, thank you” Elphimas said absently. Martyrs… representation of violence, maybe even of blood sacrifice… Rukl’Ai documented that kind of ritual, characteristic of the most primal communities. Enough witnesses could act as a ritual symbol, but they had to share the passion of the officiants if you wanted to perform actual magic through it… unless you just needed an extension of an already powerful and solidly designed ritual. The mark left by the ceremony could linger in the area’s subliminal radiation for months, an empty magical structure waiting for a wandering Wynsalo’s pulse to trigger it, amplifying the signal. The knowledge and expertise needed for the necessary calculations were astounding. Admirable skills, if not admirable goals: once activated, the ritual would ravage the whole plane, from each leaf blade to the land itself.

“Clarity and vision, huh? Fits you now that I think of it, beats me how,” replied the girl, staring at their eyes, and offered a thin necklace with a small opal pendant. Elphimas put it on without a word and turned their face away from her.

Elphimas briskly walked to the closest unobserved spot and phased out. Kalit should still be on his way, Elphimas thought as they phased in on a hidden nook of the old cobblestone square once called Alchemist’s Plaza. Elphimas wore a human illusion and took the twenty steps necessary to reach the Cold-Iron Gates, easily navigating through the sea of people. They started calculating the fastest and less guarded routes as they waited, their fingers brushing absentmindedly against the new opal necklace.

Kalit was panting as he reached the square swimming against the crowd. He glared at Elphimas, then took a moment to observe the massive complex. “Time left?”

Elphimas took a moment to double-check their assessment of the situation. “Depends on Xant’s skill and his agent’s timing. Accurate estimate for worst case scenario: about half an hour.”

“To explore all _that_?” Kalit made a gesture to encompass all the towers and vaults of the old academy.

“There is no need to,” Elphimas replied pointing at the highest tower, the Archmage’s Perch. “Unsubtle delusional mages, remember? Xant is there, unless my calculations are grossly wrong.” Along with my dramatic sense, Elphimas thought. “We should proceed as soon as you catch your breath.”

Kalit glowered at Elphimas like he had been personally insulted; he unsheathed his sword and skewered five people before the crowd could react. Their death triggered his regeneration, which soon relieved Kalit of his fatigue; he ran to the cathedral’s wall and broke through a window without a word.

Elphimas froze as the crowd started to stare at them, the only bystander who did not react with the proper shock. There is no way for me to explain this, Elphimas thought. How could the people understand? The vedalken phased out again.

Was there something worth explaining in the first place?

* * *

Elphimas was the most annoying orientation device in the whole Multiverse.

Kalit was running at full speed, powering through obstacles at the best of his ability, and the vedalken merely showed up with his fake face before a corner or a stairwell, pointing one way or the other while mumbling the most out of place remarks.

“Is it really necessary to kill every guard you encounter?” Elphimas asked as Kalit jumped over a dead body.

“He was out of your way,” as a helmet full of dead guard bounced on the floor.

“Kalit, I am sure you could hear her snoring.”

“Elphimas, _shut the hells up_ ,” Kalit hissed without slowing down. Those words granted him a few minutes of silence.

“Two corners left, Kalit. There are two guards before the tower’s entrance, can I try a peaceful solution?” Kalit could not be bothered to answer. Elphimas flickered to the successive corner. “I will endeavor to be quick, please.”

“There’s _no time_!” Kalit snarled as he turned the corner. The guards moved in front to the door to block him; with one slash of his blade, the poison blood was sprayed on their eyes and the guards dropped down screaming. Before Kalit could run through the tower’s door, Elphimas materialized in front of him with a hand raised in his direction and one laid on the door; he nearly stumbled on a squirming guard as he stopped. “What’s it now?”

* * *

Elphimas knew there was no time to lose, but the enchantments on the door seemed dangerous.

“Breaking through the door would trigger a magical – and quite deadly – trap,” Elphimas explained after a moment’s examination. “You may survive thanks to your regeneration, but it would be a useless risk when the key is on a string around his neck,” Elphimas added pointing at the guard behind their back. Kalit retrieved the key and slit his throat - Elphimas sighed resignedly – then opened the door and slid within.

The first floor of the tower was a library, with a single window and a steep spiral staircase leading upwards. The wards on the tower’s wall and doors completely blocked their sight; the wards, and the fact Elphimas had no memory of visiting the tower, made phasing through space unfeasible. The vedalken had just crossed the threshold behind Kalit when the human trembled so hard he nearly fell on his knees. Elphimas was worried they had missed a second trap, then they sensed his mana grow exponentially; the vedalken went stone still.

The ritual had been completed. Thousands and thousands of souls wiped out. The prospective of a dramatic confrontation over the fate of a plane shattered. Most sentient life on the plane, devoured! That was not the appropriate pacing for this story! Elphimas felt a cold shiver down their spine as their mind raced.

“Still too slow.” Kalit tossed the key to Elphimas and jumped on the windowsill. “Move. I’ll take the fast route.” He jumped out and started climbing the tower from the outside. Could they get revenge for the people of Fisecaric? Would that be worthy of the climax? Elphimas started climbing the stairs as fast as they could. Their mind was recalling every single face they had seen in the square. The corpses Kalit had left behind.

Elphimas had lost the script.

* * *

Kalit was grinning madly as climbed the tower’s wall; his own weight felt barely more than a feather as he jumped from stone to stone. The ridiculous amount of mana softly booming in his ears with every heartbeat felt so good he almost cried in joy and pleasure when it had arrived in a single, massive wave. Rest in peace, hopeless sacrificial lambs! He climbed more than fifty feet and reached the tower’s top window in seconds. The only thing he could see inside, beside the lavish furniture and the intricate magic circle on the wooden floor, was the blinding form of an angel, ten feet high. A form that was gradually becoming more definite. The angel opened her feathered wings and took flight. Was that… the birth of an angel?

“An intruder befouls your sanctum, Glorious Master.” _The angel’s voice and face were equally moving; Kalit felt like crying for causing the reproach in her tone…_ he shook his head and snarled his contempt. The feathery bitch was projecting some kind of aura of awe! Kalit unsheathed his sword and wielded it so that the needle in its grip pierced his skin; the poison poured from his veins and covered the sword’s edge. He knew the venom didn’t work against constructs, but even elementals suffered its effects. Might as well try.

“…smite them, Solaria,” said an old man appearing from behind the angel; he seemed under the effect of some drug, or maybe affected by the aura of his own creation. The shiny vest and the inscribed stone in his hand identified the idiot as Xant. Kalit considered going straight for him, but ignoring an angel was a deadly mistake; he reached for the mana inside him, which was straining to be unleashed, and prepared for battle.

Solaria created a spear of sunlight in her hands, but before she could attack Kalit hit her with a massive stream of raw black mana, pouring from him as water from a broken dam; her spear shattered, and the angel lost height until her feet brushed the ground, but she seemed more dazed than hurt. Kalit just kept pouring mana in the angel’s direction as he walked towards her; Solaria fell to her knees, her eyes unfocused. Kalit chuckled darkly, being a mage really was as simple as it seemed. Kalit glimpsed a dark streak in Solaria’s hair. Was the angel Falling?

The exhilarating thought made Kalit’s concentration waver, and Solaria glowed in renewed determination, threatening to overcome his inexperienced magic. Kalit closed the distance between them and plunged his sword into the angel’s heart. The poison leaked into Solaria, cracking her alabaster skin and turning her hair into ash. A twist of the blade, and the angel dissolved; it was the greatest mana surge Kalit had experienced from a single creature, restoring only a regrettably small portion of the amount he had thrown at her. Xant looked like a father witnessing the slaughter of his daughter.

“You demon! She was to be the First Voice!” A glowing circle appeared around Kalit, and two shiny chains shot to his wrists; after a second, from the powerstone rose another angel, way smaller and blander than Solaria.

Another angel took form. Kalit broke the chains with a flick of his wrists; they weren’t made to withstand the inhuman strength he was wielding. A third angel followed. Kalit noticed the angels were exactly the same: six feet high, blonde, fair skin, golden armor, armed with sword and shield, even their faces were indistinguishable; he was reminded of the legends of old, of ancient archmages falling entire noble houses with a single spell. A fourth angel took flight. Kalit imagined the angels merge into a single figure, then called for his mana and envisioned that angel drowned in the poison from his veins. A vast wave of mana ripped all the blood from his body, leaving him shaking and stunned, and the identical angels fell on the ground as one, crying black tears as their bodies were destroyed by the foul liquid. Kalit staggered as more mana was depleted to replenish his veins; the amount restored by the angels' death was just a drop in the draining ocean, but what remained still echoed his heartbeats.

“You will be slain by your own foul devices, desecrator!” Xant’s face was contorted by righteous anger. Kalit crouched to dodge a black javelin, then jumped as the second left the cleric’s hand. When Kalit landed, he tried the same venom spell on Xant, but the old man dissolved the magic with a wave of his hand and conjured an ethereal armor. Kalit swore under his breath as more mana was exhausted to restore the blood loss; playing mage had been fun, but it was time to resort to the true and tested. He rushed at Xant, determined to end the fight quickly.

“As the Spear smites the godless, the Shield protects the faithful.” A shimmering shield blocked Kalit’s assault, then exploded into a blast of blinding light. As Kalit’s sight returned, Xant's black mana reached forward and tried to rip the assassin’s soul out of his body; Kalit felt his mana crumble as it tried to restore the damage the spell caused. The assassin slashed in Xant’s direction, throwing venom at the old man; Xant was forced to shield his face with an armored arm, breaking his concentration. Kalit’s breath was heavy as he stepped back, but Xant showed no sign of fatigue.

“The Prophet said: your sins will be cleansed in sacred light!” The cleric lifted the powerstone over his head with both hands, and Kalit was blinded again by a light so strong that pushed him down on his fours like a physical force. As Kalit tried to stand up, a scorching weapon struck him so hard below the stomach that he was slammed against the far wall. The weapon had pierced right through Kalit and stone. Everything from his waist down was numb. He had survived spinal damage once. By sheer luck, though. Elphimas would have to become useful before his dwindling mana was completely consumed.

Kalit didn’t feel particularly lucky.

* * *

Elphimas was panting as the vedalken reached the tower’s top floor. And sweating. They had not sweated for a long time. They could not even remember such an event. Elphimas laid all four hands on the door as their muscles twitched uncomfortably.

Waves of mana seeped through the reinforced wood, but Elphimas focused on the enchantment of the door itself, and the more mundane lock. The enchantment was similar to the one on the tower’s entrance, another trap that was merely more deadly to trespassers. Elphimas could encase its mana with theirs and erase both, but this task would have drained the vedalken of most of their reserve and the lock would remain closed. There had to be another option.

The lock was very solid, but that was not the real problem: Elphimas had little physical strength, no skill related to picking locks and the wrong key in the pocket of their shirt. The vedalken concluded that there was no way to enter except for that spell. Elphimas did not like the idea – such magic hungered for more than mere mana – but they had no time, and Kalit could have been in danger.

The door had been locked from the inside, by a cautious – maybe even paranoid – person. The chances of Xant forgetting to lock the door were nonexistent – _almost_ nonexistent, Elphimas corrected themselves. Too excited by the promise of power, entranced by visions of future dominance… Elphimas looked for a leverage to turn the slim possibility into reality. They could probably just “will” the lock open, but Elphimas did not want to think about the resulting backlash. The key was still inside: a hand slick with sweat, the work of years so close to completion, fingers going through the familiar motions of turning the key without conscious thought, the slippery key hindered by the tight mechanism and _there_. Elphimas could sense that imaginary world; they aligned possibility with reality, every speck of dust and wisp of mana mirrored perfectly except for a turbulent patch around the lock. They closed their mana around the gap and pressed gently…

Elphimas’ mind echoed with the sound of cogs sliding into clockwork, then throbbed as the spell claimed its due.

An impossibly jarring screech covered any other sound.

Hungry darkness closed in.

An electric taste covered their tongue.

The floor shook under their feet.

The vedalken stretched their arms outward, finding two surfaces to prop themselves up – the walls, Elphimas reminded themselves. They focused on the blood coursing through their veins to ground themselves, one deep breath at a time. Elphimas knew the spell had deeper consequences on their memories, but there was no time to worry about that; the vedalken shook their head and focused on the task at hand. Elphimas made themselves invisible and covered the door with its own illusion; the vedalken slightly opened the real one, slipped inside and closed it again, letting the illusory door dissolve.

Kalit was pinned to the opposite wall by a huge spear of sunlight, his mana fading quickly as the regeneration’s effects were burned away by the shining weapon. Elphimas’ belly ached as they felt his pain at the edge of their perception. An armored Xant was standing in the middle of the room, the powerstone in one hand and a globe of black mana in the other, a powerful and deadly spell near to completion. There was little time to think: the illusion of a shadow monster charged Xant, letting out what Elphimas hoped was a terrifying roar.

Xant turned around casually and fired the spell at the illusion; the black mana, so thick it was almost solid, shattered the illusion and roared as it discharged on the enchanted door. Elphimas stepped cautiously towards the cleric as he looked around for other enemies. Xant was well protected, but he was not Elphimas’ target.

A very dangerous idea started to form in Elphimas’ mind.

* * *

Xant startled as something blue appeared out of thin air and snatched the Stone from his hand; the sudden lack of the artifact’s power felt like a physical blow, his years falling back on his shoulders like a sack of bricks. The blue intruder disappeared, but Xant could feel the mana coming from the Stone like an invisible sun shining on his face; as he reached for the small amount of mana left in him, the invisible intruder went to the black-clad assassin. Of course they were partners in sin.

The dispelling ray dissolved the blue intruder’s invisibility; they were actually blue, azure skin and cerulean robe. Xant wasn't surprised to know those godless vedalken were somehow involved. Two blue hands were hovering near the Sunlance, while – another pair of hands? What kind of deranged "scientist" would plant two limbs on a member of their own race? - clutched the Stone to their chest. As Xant stared at the creature in disbelief the assassin hit the ground, falling through the Sunlance like it was immaterial. Xant ignored him to approach the warped vedalken, who was slowly backing away.

Xant fired a Sunlance – so pitiful compared to the one which had vanquished the assassin – at the blue intruder but they dove out of the way, landing ungraciously on the ground with a whimper. The vedalken put all four hands on the Stone and opened a pair of shimmering eyes; they looked like gemstones - again, what kind of absurd experiments were involved in the creation of this miserable creature? - but Xant could tell the "vedalken" was focusing on the Stone ignoring everything else. After a moment, their eyes sparked bright and their body jerked violently, still clutching the Stone; then they seemed to lose consciousness, their eyes dim and unfocused. Xant made a step toward the azure body and heard metal scraping against wood behind him.

The assassin had reached his weapon and was slowly getting on his feet. Xant wondered if both intruders were vedalken; their flesh wasn't normally green-black as the mass writhing in the gaping – and rapidly closing, much to Xant’s frustration - wound in the assassin's torso, but he couldn't begin to wonder what kind of monsters were born in their labs. Was the distorted vedalken some kind of servant? Xant wondered as he gathered mana for another Sunlance.

* * *

the pain stop this please _hear_ it hurts _me_ enough _out_ this is too much _I want_ kill me already _to help_ end this nightmare please _lend me your power_ no way out _listen to me!_

…who are you?

_you will be free if you just help me_

no trust in you

_we can do this together_

**…agreed.**

* * *

Both men were distracted by the blast of blue light that swept the room.

Elphimas was now standing up, the powerstone in their lower hands, the upper arms relaxed along the body. The vedalken’s eyes were glowing like azure stars, the face devoid of any emotion. Elphimas took a step toward Xant, who gingerly stepped back.

**This should never have happened.**

Kalit flinched feeling the words echo like the plane itself was speaking. Xant joined his hands and clenched his teeth, condensing his mana into an indistinct shape.

**It will be unmade.**

With a gentle wave of Elphimas’ free hands the ethereal figure dissolved like it was made of smoke. Xant’s black mana formed an orb between his hands; Elphimas pointed an open hand at him.

**Enough.**

Three chains of azure light appeared around his wrists and neck, dispersing the black mana. Xant screamed of surprise and terror, but no sound came from his throat. Elphimas closed their hand into a fist and the chains fused with the old man’s skin, leaving a blue tattoo where they touched it; then the vedalken held the powerstone with all four hands.

**Your victims will be your judges.**

Elphimas’ eyes closed and the powerstone was brought against the vedalken’s forehead; there was a blinding flash of blue light. When Kalit regained sight for the third time in the last hour, the vedalken was on hands and knees, gasping for air; Xant was on his knees, staring desperately at his hands. The assassin chuckled when he heard the confused cries coming from the city. The sword itched in his hand, but the vedalken’s idea was too good to be spoiled.

* * *

His head felt hot painfully emptied of the tangle of the conscience of millions from unknown angles of her mind echoed cries of fury and pain from her eyes from the loss of the images of countless memories...

For a terrible moment they were blind.

No light entered his eyes.

The world was motionless and hopelessly black.

She forced himself to concentrate on themselves. He let the alien memories fade from her throbbing head and started searching for their identity.

The world shivered, then they remembered how to see.

They focused on their own body, sensing the blood flow and muscles tremble. Elphimas tried to project their sight outwards, but KILL DEATH JUSTICE REVENGE BLOOD they shrank and whimpered in terror.

When the vedalken shook their head to clear their mind, the world quaked so hard their elbows yielded. The floor hit them on the head.

The world dimmed and Elphimas’ head squeezed atrociously.

Elphimas was shaken by nausea as they felt a shadowy, murderous presence nearby, slowly extending an arm toward them. A series of wrong memories flashed through their conscience. He was witnessing a black-clad figure murdering her brother mother daughter wife-friend-father-lovercousinunclesonHOW MANY

They swatted Kalit’s arm away and the murderer jerked back as if burned; the confused and concerned man before him was superimposed with countless memories of horror, fright and hatred.

“Get away from me, monster!”

Elphimas did not recognize that raw, trembling voice; only the pain in their throat and the sorrow filling Kalit’s stomach made them realize who had just spoken. Kalit’s concern turned into anger; the vedalken could feel the hurt in Kalit’s heart as it were their own. Guilt filled their eyes with tears and choked them to silence. Without thinking, Elphimas escaped to the Eternities.

Coursing the Eternities felt like trying to float while dragged by wild streams of freezing water. They emerged in the Haven; their bed was merely two yards away, but for their trembling legs it could as well be two thousand miles. The ground was pitching like a dinghy during a storm.

Like their conscience among the trapped souls.

Elphimas’ stomach contracted painfully; they tried to repress the memory but they had no energy left, mental or otherwise. When commanding the power of a whole plane Elphimas had felt powerful, so powerful they had no conceivable rival… yet at the same they were a cornerstone encased in something large beyond reason. They had to comply with the will of the mob to avoid being mercilessly trampled, their mind erased and their body taken over.

Shattered.

Wiped out.

…unmade.

They vomited, overwhelmed by horror and fear.

And when it all was over…

Elphimas felt so stupid. Disgustingly stupid. Throwing away the acquaintance of another planeswalker like that, the first after all this time…

The vedalken used a sleeve to wipe their dripping lips and risked a wobbly step toward the bed. Sure, the borrowed memories of the horrors Kalit had committed were still vivid in their mind, but… they were necessary, right?

A foot slipped and Elphimas fell on their knees, crying out in pain.

Were they so much better than Kalit? Had Elphimas really felt bad for the people when all those lives had been eradicated? Or was it just disappointment for having such a climactic showdown spoiled? How many lives had they ignored to follow “the main story”? How many of them could have been saved if Elphimas had just paid attention? How many criminals had Elphimas helped in exchange for a few fairy tales? Why Elphimas had not noticed the blood on their hands sooner? A self-centered brat blessed with a shard of godhood, a clueless idiot who chose to use such an incredible gift to indulge in the hoarding of tales and pieces of junk. Empty, stupid and worthless.

Elphimas gave up.

They hit the sticky floor and started crying.

* * *

Kalit stared at the vedalken’s ring. He could try to communicate. Elphimas seemed upset.

The azure stone crumbled under his heel.

He shouldn't keep around people who considered him a monster. The church of the Twin Gods had already done enough corrupting his blood, tainting his appearance and ensuring he would never experience a lover’s embrace. He did not need another mirror to remember him his foulness.

The shards of the ring were already forgotten as Kalit stepped into his own shadow toward another target.


End file.
